Melody, decadence remix
by lefcadio
Summary: Kuja x Zidane. In the perpetual night of Treno... Kuja, Zidane, and dancing.


**Notes:** Written for remixredux '06 - I remixed 'Melody' (you can find the link to it on my LJ) an amazing FFIX fic by emeraldembers. And this is the result. :)

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"Are you going to play cards all night, or will I get my promised dance?"

For a split-second, all eyes are drawn to him; some gradually drift back down to focus on their cards once more, but others linger, following down the soft curve of his waist. An amused smile twists his pretty lips, and he lightly touches Zidane on the shoulder. The other doesn't jump, and so Kuja allows his fingers to dally, resting delicately at ease until Zidane replies. Although there is a modicum of space between them, he can still feel the heat radiating from the other genome on to the bare flesh of his stomach. When he draws his hand away, he can't help but watch in fascination as the dark blond strands of hair slide over his exposed wrist, falling down to hang in the thick air.

The room is warm and a little too crowded - yet Kuja adores it. People gather in the centre, bodies pressed together in anticipation, and it's an appealing clique of pale silks, decorated brocade and heavy velvet. Jewellery and adornments of all kinds glitter darkly in the soft candlelight. It's indulgent and decadent, and utterly Treno.

Zidane blinks, and responds almost immediately, "if I keep winning, maybe!" But then he's grinning and pocketing his cards, something flashes in his eyes, and Kuja feels one of those hot hands grab his arm in determination. There's still an urgency and excitement in all this, and they both know why.

It's a strange arrangement they have, really, and at first Kuja wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he is gone but not forgotten; though it's been a long time, and he has yet to be recognised. They travel freely, and enjoy making the most of what time they have, living each day as if it's their last - for Kuja knows that soon, Zidane will have to go on without him.

But for the moment, it's the life he most desires - sharing skills and travelling from place to place; for the first time truly _living_, not bound by the shackles of conditioning, or by some supposed fate. Now, they make their own destiny.

He smirks as hushed whispers spring up around them; Zidane leads him through the other dancers as they're openly stared at - though whether for their disruption or appearance Kuja's not entirely sure. Of course, naturally, he just tosses his silver hair and prefers to assume the latter.

They begin, and Zidane still clings onto him as though it is his first time; it had not surprised Kuja in the slightest to discover that the other was an awful dancer - but it still amuses him that Zidane seems immune to improvement.

(but he can't say that he minds, really, when he feels that enthusiasm clutching him, fingers digging into his waist; sees that tongue dart out momentarily in concentration, and then there's the hot, heavy breath on the side of his neck whenever they move in close)

No, he doesn't mind.

Zidane's staring at him and yet not _seeing_; completely focused on trying to get it right this time. His blond hair is all but hanging loose now, and occasionally he shakes his head in slight irritation, trying to move it aside.

The room is only dimly lit, and Kuja watches the dark shadows shift across Zidane's face - though they never stay long; somehow it seems as though the candlelight would much rather stray across his lips or brush his cheeks than abandon him for another.

Step, step curl, step and twirl.

But then, that was Zidane all over. Warm, friendly; bringing light to everyone he meets. He'd tried to tell Kuja that he had a way with people - and to all appearances, yes, it was true: Kuja knew he was charming and eloquent, and within moments could be being fawned over by anyone he set his sights on. Despite this, though...

It's all false. A pale imitation of a quality he can never truly obtain. Zidane's earnestness; his _sincerity_... it's something he lacks. Well, when dealing with the general populace, anyway.

Zidane stumbles a little, and Kuja tightens his hold, pulling him closer. There's a sheepish smile, then, but something lurking behind those eyes that Kuja can't quite read. He doesn't allow his own expression to change, and instead simply lets his hand slide down from Zidane's shoulder, barely touching, until it comes to rest in the small of the other's back. He can feel an almost imperceptible tremor beneath his fingertips; not much, but it's there.

Kuja can hear Zidane's breathing quicken, and as he turns his head the other finally seems to _notice_ him - eyes lighting upon him, widening slightly as though seeing him for the first time. There's a heavy intensity in the air, and Kuja's only faintly aware of those strong fingers digging almost convulsively into the bare flesh of his waist.

The music flows around them, guiding their steps and separating them from the outside world.

Then, there's a moment - a fleeting second which stretches almost painfully on; Zidane falters and turns his head a little, and suddenly their noses are almost touching. Kuja inhales sharply as Zidane's lips brush against his own; gently, almost-accidentally - but then the contact is gone, and Zidane's eyes are widening in surprise, cheeks flushing hotly.

The hall somehow feels darker; the atmosphere charged. Kuja expects the end of the dance to feel awkward, or for Zidane to avoid eye contact: neither happens. Instead, when the music finally ends and the crowds begin to disperse, Zidane simply stays still, and appears to be watching him carefully.

"That was unimpressive."

He tries to project the confident calm that so sweeps away all others he talks with; but his smirk soon wavers and gaze drops away - he knows that Zidane is different, and knows that he sees through it regardless.

"I only promised one dance." But Zidane is smiling, and then there's an arm brushing his own - and without warning a warm hand's impulsively grabbing his wrist, and dragging him away across the hall towards the shadowed doors which lead to the balcony.

Kuja soon loses track of how long they sit there under the starlight; the air is cool and soft against their flushed, warm skin, and the silence is disturbed only by the faint drifting strains of music escaping from inside.

"You know," Zidane eventually speaks up, but his voice is slow and thoughtful, as though he'd never considered what he was about to say before, "I really never thought that things would end up like this."

Kuja feels something in his chest tighten, and he swallows and looks away; the bright lights of Treno glitter beneath them, spreading out in a colourful array, patterning the horizon.

"I suppose not."

He's surprised when he feels a now-cool hand brushing the side of his face, and he turns to study Zidane, watching his dark-blond hair as it's played with by the slight breeze which surrounds them. He's not sure what he expected to see in that expression - regret, perhaps? Sadness?

There's neither.

"Hey, I never said that it was necessarily a bad thing, you know." And Zidane's voice is faintly teasing, and his hand slips away to rest gently on the back of Kuja's neck, working its way beneath his hair.

Kuja shivers and leans into that touch, and sees a small, fond smile slip onto Zidane's lips. Their dance is still burned into his memory; the heady warmth and darkness, the music and rich colours and contact - and, then, the accidental brushing of lips...

No, neither of them had expected things to end up like this.

But, as Kuja feels that hand start to slip again, slowly following his side down until it comes to rest, clasping his waist - he knows as far as the past few years go, he wouldn't have wanted it any other way.


End file.
